


Mistress of None

by beautifultoastdream



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen Rutherford is Ser Not-Appearing-in-this-Fic, Female Friendship, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Inquisitor and Vivienne friendship, Vivienne POV, girl talk, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 18:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6622264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifultoastdream/pseuds/beautifultoastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor comes to Vivienne with an awkward question, but just can't seem to spit it out. Vivienne takes her in hand and seizes the opportunity to explain a few things about just what, and who, a real mistress is. Humor, friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistress of None

“Vivienne?”

  
Vivienne, Madame de Fer, turned away from the window at the sound of the soft voice. She had been lost in thoughts that were not pleasing: beds and potions and snowy wyverns. At this moment, even Sera might have sufficed to distract her. The sight of Aholibah Lavellan in her horrible beige leathers, standing awkwardly at the top of the steps, was more than welcome.

  
Not even Corypheus himself would drag it out of her, but Vivienne was actually rather fond of the odd little Inquisitor. When she first invited Lavellan to her home, it had been with an eye purely to the advantages; indeed, she'd arranged for that ignorant pup Alphonse to be there as well, knowing that he wouldn't be able to resist a perceived challenge and that she herself would be able to step in and make a strong impression. But against the odds, she found herself growing to actually like Lavellan. The elf was as Dalish as could be without actually parking an aravel in the courtyard, and she was wont to give her opinions much too openly—something Vivienne knew was already reaping trouble for her poor advisors, who understood the Game a little better—but there was something refreshing about her primitive magic and artless speech.

(Though the accent … Darling, you must not tread _quite_ so hard on your consonants. You sound the perfect Marcher.)

At the moment, though, Lavellan looked unusually awkward. She never carried her staff in Skyhold, but without it, she seemed at a loss what to do with her hands. They were clenching and unclenching on the hem of her tunic, a clear sign of nervousness. She seemed almost … shy? Odd, considering that Lavellan was not a shy woman. Blunt, strange, occasionally annoying, but rarely shy. This would call for delicate handling.

“Is something troubling you, my dear?” Vivienne said. Lavellan looked at the floor.

“Madame de Fer … Er, Vivienne …” She appeared riveted by a crack in the stone. Certainly nervous. Vivienne hoped this wasn't the lead-in to an awkward confession of affection. That was simply impossible to entertain at the moment, not with Bastien—but ah, 'twas not to be thought of. Anyway, word had it that the Inquisitor was quite taken with her brutish Commander, so that couldn't be it.

“That is indeed my name. And my title. Do get to the point, darling, I'm sure someone is waiting to drag you away for a meeting as we speak.”

Lavellan was reddening, her blue tattoos turning dark as the pale skin beneath them flushed. The peculiar yellow eyes remained fixed on the floor. “I,” she said. “Um. Vivienne. I need some advice. About something strange.”

Well. This was an interesting distraction. “I am always at your disposal, Inquisitor,” Vivienne said, settling gracefully onto her chaise longue. “Provided it is within my capability, of course, and not distasteful. If you ask me to negotiate something with Fiona, I'm afraid I will be unavailable to assist.”

That got a laugh from Lavellan, and she looked up. “No, nothing like that,” she said. “It's just—um. Odd.” She glanced around, seemingly noticing for the first time that they were standing on what was effectively an observation platform above the main hall. “Can we talk a little more privately?”

Vivienne's interest was now well and truly piqued. “Of course,” she said. “Your chambers, perhaps?”

“No! I mean. Er. They're being cleaned.” Lavellan worried one tattooed lip between her teeth. “What about the tower? I know the upper levels aren't occupied yet … It's not very nice, but it's, well, private. And I need to ask some questions about techniques.”

“Techniques.” Vivienne leaned forward. “Magical techniques?”

“... In a manner of speaking.”

Vivienne tilted her head. The penny dropped. And, for what felt like the first time in weeks, the great Court Enchanter felt the powerful urge to laugh.

(Ah, my darling, you really are a primitive. Not the sort of primitive I once thought, perhaps—but nevertheless, charmingly unpolished. Or endearingly, perhaps, since there is little of the complexity of manner that charm implies. The vagaries of the crude Trade tongue making themselves known yet again.)

“So this _is_ about our handsome Commander,” Vivienne said.

Lavellan jumped like someone shocked by lightning and gestured frantically. “I didn't say that!” she hissed, struggling to express outraged denial while not letting anyone actually overhear what she was saying.

“You might as well have, my dear. It could be another tattoo across your forehead.” Vivienne relaxed back onto the chaise longue, smiling.

She had been right, of course. Rarely was she mistaken about the progress of a love affair. True, it was a little disappointing that it wasn't someone more suitable for the Herald of Andraste, but eligible bachelors who also met the standards for the Game were rather thin on the ground at Skyhold. Eligible bachelors that the Herald could actually stand were even rarer. And this solution suited, in a rather Varric sort of way: the mage and the Templar, a symbol of unity in the midst of war.

Not that Vivienne would say such a thing to either of them. Especially not to the half-coherent Herald currently tripping over her own words. With a sigh, Vivienne held up a hand to stem the flow of denials and terrible excuses.

“So you wish to speak to me about matters of the heart. A wise choice, my dear; too many people forget that matters of the heart should also involve the head. And you wish to do it in private, because of your … modesty, perhaps? Yet you reject my suggestion of your chambers, the most private place in Skyhold.” Vivienne cocked an eyebrow. “Has the Commander left some indication of his presence, then? Or perhaps it's only simple fear about what you're certain everyone else must know.” She let out a soft, musical laugh at that, a laugh practiced so often over so many years that it had quite become second nature. “Have I hit the mark yet?”

Lavellan breathed out. “Sera was right. You _are_ scary.” Her tone was admiring, though, and Vivienne thought she detected a hint of relief. “Please, can we just talk about it somewhere else? My room, if you insist, but please, don't say any more out loud here in front of the whole Inquisition!”

Vivienne rose gracefully, her victory acknowledged. “Of course, darling. Do lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

Despite the Inquisition now being fully settled at Skyhold, Vivienne knew that members of the inner circle rarely saw the inside of the Inquisitor's chambers. She herself had never been there, something she considered a snub until coming to know Lavellan a little better. The younger woman simply didn't realize that, being not just the Herald but also the Inquisitor, she now had certain social requirements in the way of soirees and intimate little parties. Now, with the doors closed firmly behind them, Vivienne finally had the opportunity to examine the private world of Aholibah Lavellan.

Her first impression was of disjointedness. Oh, the chambers were fine enough, and many of the furnishings had clearly come from some of the best shops in Val Royeaux, but there was no harmony to them. A beautiful Orlesian fourposter with rough Dalish hangings stood framed by the almost stark Fereldan-fashioned windows of the fortress, both utterly at odds with the bearskin rug that might well have been something Lavellan killed herself.

It made a hideous combination, that was for certain, but it also intrigued Vivienne. People expressed themselves through their choices, and in the heart of the Game the choice to follow fashion meant one's own tastes were not revealed to all. But Lavellan's rooms were personal and telling. Those same Fereldan windows, because Lavellan was not the type of person to have windows changed when there was other work to be done in the fortress. The bed for comfort—Vivienne recognized the maker's mark, and knew his mattresses to be excellent. (So good to see you at least adopting some of our habits, darling. One can't sleep in a cart forever.) Dalish hangings out of sentimentality, or perhaps as a kind of barrier against the world. The rug—ah, perhaps the Inquisitor should have not chosen the rug after all. There was nothing quite like great bear hide for holding footprints, and Vivienne's sharp eyes could clearly see the marks left by a pair of boots that were very definitely too large to be Lavellan's.

“So,” Vivienne said, perching delicately on the edge of a wingbacked armchair near the fire. (Antivan. Doubtless Lady Montilyet's contribution.) “Affairs of the heart, my dear. Or rather, one affair. Unless the Commander isn't your only amour?”

Lavellan's blush had begun to fade as they made their way up the stairs, but now it returned full force. “Just him,” she said sharply, trying to shield herself from embarrassment with aggression. Vivienne recognized the ploy for what it was and took no offense. “Is that a problem?”

“On the contrary. Commander Cullen may be a bit rough, darling, but it's easy to see that his heart is tender. If you were entertaining other paramours, he would be inconsolable. And he might feel obliged to duel them, which would be disastrous. Our Commander does not have the least idea of how to conduct a proper duel, and someone would end up dead.”

A small smile curled one corner of Lavellan's mouth. “That would be dangerous, yes,” the elf said. “And Cullen doesn't duel. We actually had to discuss that at the war table once—some noble was challenging him over what happened at Haven. Cullen suggested just sending a professional as his second, but Josie seemed more worried about 'brawling in the streets.'”

“'Brawling' is precisely the word, I think.” Vivienne's own lip curled, not so much in amusement. Cullen Rutherford didn't strike her as the kind of man who knew one word of the Code Duello, let alone chose to follow its rules. He would probably eschew even the accepted types of cheating and settle for bashing his opponent's head in with the flat of his shield. “Duels are intended to be matters of honor, my dear, not simply about winning and losing. The Commander would win the fight, but lose the duel.” She raised an eyebrow. “However, you are attempting to distract me, aren't you? Matters of the heart. Is something awry between the two of you? Are you finding a human lover not quite to your taste after all?”

Lavellan sputtered. “What? No! I mean—how do you—why do you even think he's my—“

Vivienne sighed a little. “Darling, do be sensible. You were afraid to have me in your bedroom, so clearly your Commander has been here. Half the fortress knows the two of you have been stealing kisses on the battlements—“ She hadn't thought it was possible for Lavellan to turn even redder, but apparently it was. Elvish powers continually surprised her “--and after surviving a trip in the Fade itself, too! My dear, do you really think anyone doubts you've trysted? It's only natural. So you've had him, and seemed quite content these past few days; for certain you've been smiling a great deal. Yet here you are now, clearly unsettled. One can't help wondering.”

She raised one eyebrow just the perfect fraction of an inch. The open and artless Inquisitor was no match for her, and the elf's form seemed to crumple a little at Vivienne's words.

With a sigh, Lavellan sat down on the edge of her bed and leaned forward, her elbows braced on her thighs, hands dangling listlessly over her knees. Her profile was unmistakably elvish: the shallow bridge of the nose, the lightly curling gray-blue hair, the tattoos that not only marked her forehead and chin but dyed her lips a truly unfashionable turquoise. (No wonder the poor girl wears beige. The Dalish have condemned her to a life of never matching anything.) She looked out of place, and she seemed to know it.

“It's just …” Lavellan let out another sigh. “It's good. It's wonderful. He's so—strong, and kind, and—so Cullen.” She looked up again quickly, something defiant creeping into her gaze. “But you're right. A little. I don't know how to have a human … lover. I never had one before.”

“You poor thing,” Vivienne said, not without sympathy. “Your first human, darling?”

“My first lover.”

Vivienne's eyebrows shot up. She hadn't meant to show surprise, really—an unacceptable lapse on her part. She was used to controlling herself more efficiently, considering the dangers of the Game. But really, who had been expecting _that?_

Spending most of her life in the Circle had not, as some might assume, condemned Vivienne to ignorance. Part of excelling as a mage—and she did indeed excel, darling, make no mistake about that—was knowledge, and she had availed herself of every resource available to the curious. The Ostwick Circle's libraries were excellent and extensive. But she had rarely met Dalish, either within the Circle or later, in high society. One simply didn't cross paths with them, just as one didn't cross paths with a substandard dressmaker, and for the same reason: in Val Royeaux, unacceptable elements were weeded out. She had nothing against the Dalish personally (though she found their obsession with bygone sins tedious), but she rarely met them and had learned what she knew of them from books.

Many of those books were, perhaps, worthy of being taken with a grain or two of salt. Chantry scholars could be rather imaginative when it came to the ways of primitive peoples who didn't follow the Maker.

But really, who could have imagined that Lavellan had never had a lover? Virginity was often at issue in the Game, but it tended to be a piece openly acknowledged and handled with care. Nobody expected a truly powerful figure, as the Inquisitor was despite everything, to have been even remotely virginal by the time she came to power. Sex was a tool and a weapon, and one any sane player of the Game would know how to use. This was somewhat out of Vivienne's realm of experience.

Still, at least the Commander had apparently taken care of that little problem, Maker be praised. The enchantress took a fraction of a second to adjust the edges of her slightly ruffled expression before replying.

“Well, he can't be that difficult to practice on, darling,” she said, leaning forward just a fraction. “A good Chantry boy surely won't be demanding anything too exotic, can he? Unless he's one of those wildly repressed ones … Ah, but I doubt it.”

Lavellan shook her head. “No, it's fine, it's … It's good.” Even the tips of her ears could turn red, Vivienne noted with interest. “He makes me feel like—like I can do this.” Another hint of defiance aimed Vivienne's way. “Not ruin everything, I mean. But I've never been … I don't know how to be …”

“My dear, what are you on about? _Be_ a woman a man wants. It's quite simple.”

“He wants me. That's clear enough.” The blush didn't deepen, possibly because all the blood was already in her face. “And I want him, and I like him. I didn't expect to like a shem—human this much. But all we really have are, well, moments.” She looked down again, but not from embarrassment this time. If her ears could have drooped, they would have. “And then we have to go back to being Inquisitor and Commander. It's necessary, but if all we have are moments, I want them to be the best moments possible. And I don't know how to be someone's lover or someone's lady or someone's mistress—“

“Now wait just a moment, darling.” Vivienne held up a hand. She could sense a question there, struggling to slip out of poor Lavellan's mouth, but the elf couldn't seem to get her words around the real issue of it. “Let me stop you before you make another dreadful mistake. Is this why you came to speak to me? Because you think you're the Commander's _mistress?_ ”

“No! Not really. I just …” Lavellan scrubbed a hand over her face. “I don't know how humans do this kind of thing, do I? Maybe there's a better word for it. But you're a powerful woman, and you've got a powerful lover, and you're his mistress … I mean, that's the word to use, isn't it?”

Vivienne suppressed another rising urge to laugh. “Oh, darling,” she said instead. “Darling, darling, darling. That's really not the way to go about it. If anything, the Commander is _your_ mistress.”

Lavellan's eyes widened. “Uh,” she said eloquently.

Vivienne waved a hand. “The trade tongue is terrible for this kind of thing, isn't it? I could explain so much more easily in Orlesian. But please, do think about it. The Commander is powerful, true, but he serves you—in more ways than one, it seems,” she added out of sheer devilment, and was rewarded by the sight of Lavellan apparently attempting to crawl into her own collar like an embarrassed turtle. “You have the upper hand not only in temporal power, but in spiritual authority as well. As a good Andrastean, he must bow to you.

“Now,” she continued, tapping her fingertips against the smooth wood of the armrest, “that isn't to say that our Commander Cullen is an _accomplished_ mistress. If he were to really understand his own position, he would be exercising a mistress's power—managing your household, arranging that you only see the people he secretly favors, whispering suggestions under the cloak of night. And I'm certain he isn't, because you do have that adorable habit of occasionally choosing diplomacy over his preferred rampant slaughter. He must really love you, to put up with that.”

“Uh.”

“Of course, that means the balance of power is truly unequal. I may not carry the same name or command the same loyalty as Bastien, but darling, never think for one second that a mistress is only an ornament. We are a class and a force unto ourselves. Perhaps the Commander should be considered merely a kept man?” Vivienne pursed her lips, considering. “No, not correct. But you truly hold the power in this little _folie a deux_ , where he is your—let us say attendant-lover? That will do. _Chevalier-servant-en-titre._ If you prefer, I will write to some of my acquaintances in the court who keep such men.”

That finally galvanized the Inquisitor into life again. “Please don't!” she said quickly. “I mean … please, that's not necessary. I …” She shook her head, tugging helplessly on one earlobe.

“They would be able to advise you more closely than I,” Vivienne said soothingly. “A few keep young men to cater to their whims, I know. It's not quite the done thing in some circles, but it's hardly scandalous. I understand ordering the man to kiss one's foot and beg apologies is quite—“

Lavellan made a noise like a squashed frog, temporarily silencing Vivienne. The enchantress resisted the urge to lean forward and examine Lavellan more closely. Had she finally reached the correct point?

“Um,” Lavellan said finally. “I'm confused now. I just wanted some advice, please. From one woman to another. Not about mistress things.” She took a deep breath. “Advice about … how to do … some things. And know some things. Other things. About having a lover. And … being with a lover.”

Vivienne settled back, throughly satisfied with this response. Finally! She had not yet begun to tire of this game, but still, it was nice to have the preliminaries done with. The Inquisitor's usual open bluntness had indeed become oddly comfortable in the past months, and all this hemming and hawing had been rather out of character. Now, for the coup de grace.

“Is that all?” she said with perfect, amiable puzzlement. “My dear, why didn't you just say so?”

“It's not the easiest thing to talk about,” Lavellan admitted. “I didn't know you'd be asking so many questions back. And talking about kissing feet.”

“My lady Inquisitor, a mistress's greatest skill is in management.” Vivienne clucked her tongue. “You're being so bashful and impossibly shy—and not even properly coy, dear, shy, and I've never seen the like from you before. Sometimes even a friend needs to be prodded in the correct direction.” She smiled. “So, let us be blunt. You want to drive our Commander wild, enslave his passions, haunt his dreams, change his life, secure the undivided attention of not only his loins but his heart, and in short, thoroughly ruin him for any other woman of any race. Is this correct?”

“Well …” Lavellan's eyebrows raised as she considered it. “Yes? But not in a horrible-sounding way.”

“That can be arranged, darling.” Vivienne smiled. “Let me show you some books.”


End file.
